


Hold Me ‘till the Storm Rolls Away

by Clxarke



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: 3rd person pov, Adam Parrish doesn't deserve this, Adult Language, Angst beyond human limitations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No use crying over spilled tea, Not so much a confession of love but more like a crashing into it head-first, Pre-Relationship, Present Tense, references to past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5514113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clxarke/pseuds/Clxarke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn’t normal. </p><p>The two are so drastically dissimilar it had seemed impossible for them to coexist in the same space without the rest of their friends present. But here they are— Gansey and Blue asleep on the other side of town, Noah probably haunting the corridors where Ronan generally subsides.</p><p>Ronan and Adam, above a church, no choir singing beneath them at this hour. To be atop a church with two pieces of the devil is to fall too quick— to crash and burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Me ‘till the Storm Rolls Away

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I'm not Maggie Stiefvater. I own the plot, she owns the... everything else. 
> 
> WARNINGS: No explicit mentions of abuse, but there are references to possible triggers one might have if one has suffered past abuse (loud noises). Mild adult language. Brief mention of blood and burns, but nothing extreme. No serious spoilers to any of the books.

The sky opens but Adam doesn’t move. He just lets the rain soak through his clothes and drip into his eyes. It’s just like standing in a cold shower after a day of roasting in the unrelenting Henrietta sun.

 He stands in the rain, in the dark, in the opposite of everything he’s ever known.

 A car pulls up. Instead of being yanked inside, someone hops out— slamming the door behind them.

 “Are you _trying_ to die?” Comes Ronan’s voice like a low vibration from under his hood.

 “Maybe.”

 “Funny.” He states, the word forged without tolerance. “Its cold as shit out here, Parrish.”

 “Go inside then.”

 Ronan’s stare burns holes through the sheets of rain and then: “Give me your key.”

 Adam tosses it to him. Ronan nearly drops it, his vision impaired by the downpour.

 Adam closes his eyes as Ronan hikes up the stairs hurriedly, towards shelter. He hears the door shut behind him, faltering twice before clicking in the door frame. Ronan leaves it partly open.

The raindrops grow larger as Adam stands there, chilled to the bone. He considers the amount of rain it would take to flood Saint Agnes’s basement— then he decides that he doesn’t care.

 A small voice in the back of his mind reminds him that hypothermia isn’t the most enjoyable plan of action. He has a million options.  A step forward, into the endless rain, or a step backward, into warmth.

 Ronan is up there, probably dripping on Adam’s floor, but not sitting down. He wouldn’t ruin Adam’s furniture. He _would_ wait until Adam comes up to inform him that he was tempted, but he would never do it.

 Adam breathes out and choses warmth.

 As he suspected, Ronan is standing there, drenched. One of the overhead lights is out, but there are a few lamps scattered around the apartment that still work, casting a shadowy light over every object.

 “You finished with your existential crisis?”

 “Yep.”

 “Good.” Ronan crosses his arms, trying not to shiver so obviously.

 Adam reaches into bathroom and tosses him a towel. Ronan nods in gratitude.

 “What are you doing here anyway?” Adam asks, peeling off his soaked through t-shirt to throw in the dryer.

 “I—“ Ronan’s voice stalls, his piercing eyes on Adam’s torso, distracted for a moment. “Dick sent me.” Adam nods, expecting that. “He wanted me to check up on you. Said you were acting strange and wanted me to make sure you weren’t starving yourself or some shit.”

 Adam tugs on a dry shirt. Ronan physically relaxes. Adam pretends not to notice. “Gansey doesn’t need to send you to babysit me. Really, I’m fine.”

 “Hey, no need to convince me.” Ronan lays the towel out on the couch before sitting. Adam’s mouth kicks up in the corner. “I don’t actually care. I just wanted to get away from Dick’s whining. And Noah’s being a creepy fucker, as usual.”

 Adam nods, taking a seat in the armchair across from him. “I’d say you’re always welcome here, but then you might end up living on my couch with how easily annoyed you are.” The offer stands. It remains masked behind their banter— the only way they know how to be.

 “I might be easily annoyed, but they’re catastrophically annoying.”

 Adam, despite himself, can’t help but bristle at this. Ronan has a _home_ with people who love him. They may not be his family, but they’re better then the alternative. He thought Ronan would understand that, of anyone. 

 “Why? Because they care about you?” Adam’s voice adopts a certain edge.

 Ronan’s eyes narrow. His body is programmed to fight. This is no exception, no matter how drastically he wants it to be. “Because they’re assholes.”

 Adam shakes his head. “They’re annoying because they love you. Same with Blue and I.”

 Ronan notices that the dewy droplets on Adam’s hair and eyelashes haven’t vanished yet. “Don’t get soft on me, Parrish.”

 Adam forces their eye contact. He’s surprised to find that he doesn’t have to try very hard. “You shouldn’t run away from people who care about you.”

 “Who the Hell says I’m running? I’m _here_ aren’t I?”

 Adam takes a short, confused breath. “What?”

 “I could be out racing or fighting, but I’m not. So unless, in the past few seconds, you’ve removed yourself from the list of people who give a shit whether or not I’m dead, I’m obviously in the right place.”

 “I mean…” Adam huffs, not knowing the protocol. Ronan Lynch doesn’t do _heartfelt,_ but this is as close as he gets. Its unnerving. “I guess.”

 “Great.” Ronan leans back in his seat, drained. “Glad we got that sorted.”

 Adam sits there a moment, needing to do something with his hands. He stands suddenly and walks over to the kitchenette.

 “What are you doing?” Ronan asks, seeming alarmed. Adam can't imagine for the life of him why he would be.

 “Making tea. Want some?”

 After some brief consideration, Ronan grunts in approval.

 He watches Adam’s hands as he grabs some four-dollar mugs from the cabinet and sets a rusty kettle on the stove. Adam busies himself by seizing a few teabags from a jar and scouring his cupboard for sugar. He hasn’t made tea in a while, but as on edge as he’s been recently, a beer wouldn’t be an ideal choice of beverage.

 Ronan generally thinks otherwise, but something about the set in Adam’s shoulders drags the terseness out of him. For the moment he finds himself resenting his own malicious tendencies— his inclination to pick fight over flight. He’s tired of his own aggression. He’s tired of straining muscles and loud voices. He’s just tired.

Adam might be the only person who understands.

 The kettle whistles after a moment, interrupting the skilfully built silence. Shattering the calm like a knocked over house of playing cards. Adam starts at the sound, flinching and tensing away from it. Ronan notices, but says nothing. They’re just tired.

"Is Earl Grey okay, Lynch?” Adam asks, pouring the scalding tea into chipped mugs.

 “Sure.” Ronan replies. He's sure he hates Earl Grey, but accepts it anyway. He wants to taste what Adam tastes.

As Adam takes his seat again, Ronan decides that he actually enjoys the feeling of the hot mug in his palm. Strangely enough, it makes him want to punch something. With the usual consistency of adrenaline pumping through his veins, the serenity is almost foreign. It’s such a luxury to be calm. Ronan can't help feeling out of place in it. Like he doesn't deserve it. 

The milk and sugar are set out on the table. Adam doesn’t use them. Neither does Ronan. Its bitter, Ronan thinks, but not horrible. Somehow better then beer.

The torrential rain is still persistent outside the window. Ronan burns his tongue on the tea, but ignores the sting. Adam's leg bounces under the coffee table, the only sign of discomfort in the room besides Ronan’s darting eyes.

This isn’t normal. The two are so drastically dissimilar it had once seemed impossible for them to coexist in the same space without the rest of their friends present. But here they are— Gansey and Blue asleep on the other side of town, Noah probably haunting corridors where Ronan generally subsides. Ronan and Adam, above a church, no choir singing beneath them at this hour. To be atop a church with two pieces of the devil is to fall too quick— to crash and burn.

They drink their bitter beverages until a loud crash of thunder sends Adam to his feet, his hot tea spilling over the table. The strike must be close, because the ground shakes underneath them. Ronan is standing now too, his instincts possessing him. For a split second he thinks of Cabeswater.

“ _Shit!_ ” Adam hisses, shaking his sweltering hands. The mug is a pile of shattered ruins on the hardwood floor.

Ronan doesn’t say a word. He yanks the towel from his seat and tosses it over the table, sopping up the mess before it can drip.

“Thanks.” Adam sighs, his eyes fall to the floor. Ronan can see his burnt hands shaking. His whole body is shaking, still jarred from the thunder. There’s a bright flash outside the window. Adam cringes; seeing the light as a warning of more noises yet to come.

“Let me see your hands.” Ronan says as gently as he can, stepping around the table. Coming from Ronan, it’s more of a brisk statement then his usual commands. Adam notices the shift.

Ronan grabs the mechanic’s hands just as he opens his mouth to protest. The burns aren’t as bad as he feared. There won’t be scarring, just a bit of inflammation that will die down in a few hours. Ronan releases a breath. Of all hands on this earth, these are the most important.

Adam snatches them away. His accent breaks through. “I’m fine, Ronan, really. I just—“

Another loud clap of thunder sends him reeling forward. His teeth knock together as his jaw shuts. He bites his tongue and can taste metal in his mouth like he’s swallowing screws.

“Adam.” Ronan’s voice is insistent. Adam sinks to his knees and Ronan falls with him, his hands gripping Adam’s shoulders.

Adam stares down at the swiftly approaching ground, tears burning in his eyes. He doesn’t dare look up at Ronan, who is struggling desperately to think of what to do. He’s seen a variety of emotions on Ronan before. Desperate was never one of them. It’s like an article of clothing that doesn’t fit quite right. He wants to tear it off of Ronan and rip it to shreds.

“Adam.” Ronan tries again, holding on tighter every time Adam trembles. “You’re okay. You’re— You're safe.” Ronan Lynch attempting to comfort someone is like watching a hawk try to soothe its prey— but the effort is there. It’s always there.

“I’m… Sorry.” Adam whispers, defeated.

Ronan shakes his head. “Don’t be.” He glances down at Adam’s scorched hands and winces. “No one can be perfect _all_ the time.”

Adam looks up at him. He allows their eyes to meet for a fraction of a second, Ronan's are a clearer, lighter blue then his own. It’s too much.

So he closes them,

And presses his lips to Ronan’s.

Ronan’s body goes completely still. His hairs stand on end, much more frightened of this action then the thunder. He breathes through his nose and doesn’t dare pull away. For months, Ronan had believed that Adam always sat too close and pushed too far. Now it seems that he was wrong. Adam had never been close enough. Now he is. Finally. 

That’s what this is: _Finally. Finally. Finally._

Despite this fact, Adam is about to pull away and strangle an apology out of his rapidly closing throat, when another clap of thunder rocks the building. He finds himself pushing harder against Ronan, feeling impossibly safer in his lethal embrace. Chest to chest. soul to soul.

He expects Ronan to provide some resistance, as a generally retaliating force. He doesn’t. He is unbelievable compliant. As Adam moves, Ronan moves with him. No hesitation, no opposition— just complete and utter faith. He supposes he should never have expected anything else. Ronan either battles against something, or gives everything he's got.

The push against Ronan’s mouth is more than welcome. A feeling surges, powerful enough to tug something deep in Ronan's chest. The kiss deepens as his hands move up Adam’s shoulders, to the base of his neck, caressing every nerve ending. Its reactionary. He can't stop his roaming hands. He doesn't want to. He whispers something truthful that Adam's deaf ear doesn't hear. Adam's muscles relax, melting under his touch. 

Ronan cannot believe that something like this could come of a trauma.

In a horrible moment of clarity, ice shoots down his spine. Ronan wonders if this will be their first, and ultimately _last_ , embrace. That once the kiss is over, the curtains will close and the courage he’s been storing up for years will go to waste.

Almost on cue, Adam pulls away. He does this slowly, like he doesn’t want to startle either of them.

“Ronan," his voice is impossibly quiet. "I’m—“

“Don’t.” Ronan interrupts, his eyes painfully falling shut. “I understand—“

The gentle pressure of Adam’s lips on his own stops his strained words. Adam pulls back a fraction, then kisses him again. Its new, chaste, and beautiful. Ronan's eyes flutter open as Adam fully draws away a second time.

“Stay.” Adam prays. _Hold me ‘till the storm rolls away._

Two men above an empty church

It takes Ronan a long moment to formulate a real reply under the weight of the rain pooling in the gutters.

“Okay.” He answers. _For as long as you need me_.

_Finally. Finally. Finally._

 


End file.
